Down in the Well
by tinyvariations
Summary: Willa's a bitch, Champ is an ass, and Bobo is planning to destroy the whole town on his way out the door. With the world burning around them, Waverly and Nicole find themselves drawn deeper together. A collection of deleted scenes from 1x12 and 1x13.
1. Waverly, Earp Homestead

**Well (n.)**

 _The center of the spin of a bucking horse or bull. Riders may get into the well and not be able to regain their balance. To be "down in the well" describes a situation in which a bull is spinning in one direction and the force of the spin pulls the rider down the side of the bull into the vortex. A dangerous situation._

* * *

Tracking the sound of the footfalls through the homestead, she knows the instant the feet find the stairs - the sound changes minutely, the flat tread suddenly deep and resonating, but with a distinct hollowness to it. Once the footsteps pass the fifth or sixth stair step, they become too faint to be easily audible, in spite of the hush that's fallen over the rest of the house, so instead she counts along in her head, calculating progress. She takes no pride when, right on time, a low-pitched creak reverberates down the stairwell, around the corner and into the kitchen, confirming the individual's passage into the upstairs hallway.

That board has creaked since time immemorial. She remembers hearing its harsh rasp in the middle of the night as a child, startling her out of a silent slumber repeatedly, the kind of thing ready-made for childhood nightmares - until one night, when a stifled giggle followed the groan of the wood, the sound of either Willa or Wynonna sneaking into her sister's room for mischief. Probably Wynonna. Sneaking has never been her strong suit; she's more the bull in a china shop sister. That night the creak lost its power to fuel her nightmares, lost its ability to create monsters and boogeymen outside a young girl's bedroom door. Instead, it became the sound of loneliness. The sound of the being left out, the invisible sister. The fear in her bones gave way to pain, a constant dull ache, until eventually her bones hollowed completely.

When she hears the soft click that signifies Willa has shut the door to her room upstairs, Waverly relaxes fractionally, releasing the breath she's not even aware she's been holding. The medical tape high on her rib cage pulls uncomfortably against her skin, and she curls her fingers into a loose fist to keep herself from reaching up to pick at it.

With a softness belying her urgency, Waverly pads out of the kitchen, and after a quick deliberation, turns toward the back door, whose hinges had gotten the WD-40 treatment a few months back when Doc was ingratiating himself with his handyman routine. With a twist of the wrist, the porcelain of the antique knob cold against her bare palm, the back door swings opens with minimal protest, the escape route clear before her. Stopping once more on the threshold, her head cocked slightly to the side, she evaluates the sound of the house behind her, checking one more time that the way is unimpeded. All is quiet.

The silence is suffocating.

Slowly, torturously, she pulls the door closed behind her, careful not to let the latch rattle in the frame, and steps into the yard, one foot meticulously placed in front of the other. The barn comes into view when she rounds the corner, and with a few more steps, she spies the squad car still parked in front of the house. A quick glance up toward the second story window and she increases her speed, aiming straight for the outbuilding. Her feet crunch sharply on the snow.

It's the third time in as many days they're having to resort to "popping out" to the relative seclusion of the barn, bitterness etching itself on her face at the thought. With Willa haunting the homestead, the house is changed. Rooms that have sat empty for years are suddenly crowded. The windows have sprouted eyes, the hallways ears. And now the doors have a tongue - to lash, to judge. To remind. Always to remind. On the surface, everything appears the same. Waverly's shitkickers are still by the backdoor, the smudges on the wall marking off the growth of the Earp sisters remain, her room still has enough books and flammable paperstuff to give a fire marshall a heart attack. But it feels...off. There's a feeling in the pit of her stomach when she's home now that never quite goes away.

She's trying with Willa. She is. Here lately she's been swallowing her concern like it's a fine wine, pushing it aside to make room for the return of the prodigal daughter. But for all of her dogged efforts, for all of her overtures, the unease remains. The wine starts to sour.

For the last several years, Waverly's life has been nothing if not predictable. Work, Champ, online courses, Chrissy & the girls - the thrilling day to day reality of living in a place like Purgatory, where the livestock outnumber the people. Her existence was stationary, a celestial body alone in the night sky. Life was steady, calculable. Boring. And then Wynonna came strolling back into town, wrapped in sarcasm and leather, and just like that Waverly was thrown into motion, her sister's gravity pulling her out of stagnation, setting the two of them spinning together in the night sky. She couldn't fight physics. But with Wynonna, the change brought balance. After an initial adjustment period, they began to move in tandem as the Earp sisters settled into their orbits, each exerting a pull on the other, keeping the other on their trajectory, keeping the other close.

Willa, though - Willa is different. Her arrival is a perturbation, another gravitational force thrown into the mix, pulling and stretching Wynonna and Waverly both out of their established paths, their established relationship, and creating new patterns of her own. For all of them. She's been back for a blink of an eye, but she's changed every parameter, every system that existed before. The effect on Wynonna, at least from what Waverly can see, is outsized, pulling her close, the two oldest Earps' paths now closely entwined, while Waverly herself has been left spinning on the outskirts, her new solitary orbit.

Or maybe it's an old one. Maybe everything else was the aberration, and this...this is a return to the natural order of things, the order of childhood. Maybe this is just the galaxy righting itself.

Passing the porch, a bitter gust pushes against her front, slowing her progress, and she tucks her head and pulls her arms close, a desperate attempt to keep the chill from infiltrating her thin top.

What happened in the kitchen a few minutes ago is just the latest scene in this ongoing play, but it echoes the ones that have come before. The scenery may have changed, but the lines are repeating. There's this casual...awfulness about the way Willa interacts with others. Given what's happened to her in the last fifteen years, it's not unexpected that Willa might have problems adjusting to being back in society and back with them on the homestead. Being abducted, brainwashed, forced into a cult - that'll definitely cripple a person's ability to interact with any sort of tact or aplomb. But it's not that she's just rough around the edges, like she was with Nicole just now in the kitchen, her words brusque and dismissive, spoken with no care for how they'd land. Waverly's watched Willa interact with a handful of people now, and she's treated many of them the same way, all cool and detached, speaking her mind and leaving it at that.

But her words to Waverly tend to take on another tone entirely. Instead of cool or indifferent, they feel cruel. Personal. Intentional. As much as Waverly's been trying to make allowances, to give cover to a sister who wields words like weapons, there are times when it's too much. Fifteen years. Fifteen years have passed, but in some ways it's like it's been no time at all.

With each new scene and each new instance, it's another year removed, like she's some medical marvel, de-aging right before their very eyes. Willa's barbs land sharp and keen on her skin, ripping open wounds from long ago, until finally, stripped of all the years, of all of the things she's made of herself, she's back to being the unhappy little girl she once was.

Growing up, Waverly did what most little girls do when they have older siblings - she idolized them. She wanted to be best friends with them. She wanted to be _just like_ them.

In reality, though, she was the tagalong, the half-sized Earp straggling and stumbling after her older sisters as they took on the world together, forever in their shadows but still grateful when they looked back her way. There were happy moments. Even at her most melancholy, Waverly can remember laughing like a maniac that one time when all three of them planned and schemed and executed a practical joke on their father. In hindsight, they were lucky he was sober at the time, taking the prank in his stride and good-naturedly teasing his girls in return. All of his girls.

But for every memory like that, warm and bright and tinged with sun, there are three more shaded in angry reds or cold grays. There's Willa holding Waverly's beloved teddy bear hostage...again. Or Willa forcing Waverly to walk the plank in the barn in return for keeping a secret from their father. In a million ways and a million times, there were teasing names, cruel words, and crueler actions.

But surprisingly, what inflicted the most pain was when there were no words at all.

A few days ago, Willa followed an angry Wynonna out to the barn, and Waverly, unbeknownst to them, followed them both. Watching Willa tell Wynonna she didn't have to be alone anymore, watching Wynonna sink into a hug, hopeful and comforted and content - in that moment, Waverly felt her bones hollow and her heart wither.

Fifteen years later, and she's back to being the invisible Earp. Growing up, she'd watched her daddy line up Willa and Wynonna one by one against the door jamb, her sisters standing up as straight and tall as she'd ever seen, smiles as big as Texas (and probably the most stationary Wynonna had ever been in her life). Using an old pencil from the kitchen junk drawer, he'd mark the wall with their latest height, and together they'd 'ohhh' and 'ahhh' about how far they'd come. No one noticed when, after the older sisters moved out of the way, Waverly would try to take her turn, her shoulders squared, eking out a fraction of an inch more by subtly standing on her tippy toes, only to watch, crestfallen, as the pencil was returned to the kitchen drawer and the others moved out of the room. No one noticed when she'd stand next to the door jamb by herself, tongue sticking out with the effort, trying clumsily to mark her own height using her tiny hand as a placeholder. No one was watching. No one cared. It's been fifteen long years, and in the blink of an eye, it's like Willa never left.

With another dozen feet to go, she takes a second to look down at herself, her arms still crossed protectively across her chest. They're solid. Visible. And oddly reassuring. But it's too late to stop the tears prickling at her eyes or the lump forming in her throat.

She tries to remind herself that the Willa from back then and Willa now are two different people, that she can't hold a trauma victim accountable for every hurtful thing she says or does. Whether intentional or not, she owes Nicole an apology. Again. Having Willa's abrasiveness aimed at herself is one thing. She's used to that. But watching her verbal punches hit Nicole - that's a lot harder to stomach, and Nicole isn't deserving of any of the rancor thrown her way. God, she's only here to support Waverly, and instead she ends up a target herself.

The wound on her side itches, and she fights the urge to scratch and pull and tear off the bandage.

With Willa, underneath it all there are moments when the lines blur. Or maybe blur isn't really the right way to describe it at all. Maybe these are moments of sharpness, where one of Willa's looks, her words, her actions slice Waverly to the bone, the cut precise, almost surgical. These are reserved exclusively for Waverly. Only Waverly, and always when Wynonna is out of range. It's the exclusivity more than anything that casts doubt in Waverly's mind about the intentionality of her older sister's behavior.

These are dark moments - honest moments, really - where she finds herself torn, wishing things could go back to the way they were, without Willa, back to when she felt like she and Wynonna were finally figuring out how that they made a great team. Back to when her world felt steadier.

And then the guilt rushes in, fierce and hot, her lungs filling with shame at her selfishness. Willa's been through some unbelievable trauma, and Waverly can't begin to imagine how terrified and alone her sister must have felt for _years_ after that night so long ago. Beneath the coolness and the cruelty, she's a victim, and Waverly has to remind herself of that repeatedly. She tries to stick to her plan - be nice, be open, be a good sister. Turn the other cheek when Willa does or says something hurtful. Watch out for her as best she can, just like she does for Wynonna. Because they're family. And she of all people shouldn't take family for granted.

But she can't help feeling like Sisyphus, pushing the rock up the hill, her muscles straining and trembling with the exertion, hopeful that today's the day it slots into place at the top. Hoping today she doesn't have to worry about losing her grip and feeling the boulder flatten her to the ground. It's overwhelming and exhausting, and in the end, will it even matter?

As she opens the door to the barn and steps inside, the stress catches up with her. Looking up from her spot on the bed, Nicole observes. Waverly, still fighting frustrated tears, starts her apology. "I'm sorry, Willa j-" Her voice strangles in her throat as her emotions finally boil over, and she closes her eyes.

In an instant, she senses Nicole's approach by the warmth rolling off of her body as she gets close, and it's in that moment that Waverly realizes she's been shivering, her two minute excursion in the snow enough to chill her thoroughly. Strong arms encircle her shoulders and pull her in. Automatically, her own arms snake around Nicole's waist, her hands bunching in the sweater, and she buries her face into the soft fabric, letting the warmth soak her skin.

It's hard to say how long they stay like that, wrapped up in one another, the lines between them indistinct. No questions, no talking - not really. Nicole occasionally murmurs words of comfort, the sound meant to calm. But with Nicole's chin resting against her forehead, and Waverly's ear pressed close to the taller girl's chest, what she really hears is a heartbeat, strong and steady, and she feels the vibration of words more than the words themselves. The combination of the two is one of the most soothing sensations she's felt in her entire life, and her arms constrict, pulling Nicole impossibly closer.

A couple of weeks ago, Waverly's life was turning upside down. They'd finished off the seven, and Wynonna and Nicole had nearly died in the process. Gus was in the middle of selling Shorty's. And she and Nicole...well, that was quickly coming to a head as well. Each on their own was daunting and unnerving, but coming all at once? It had been terrifying, and the worst part was that she felt like she had to face it alone. Always alone.

But here she is again, the world once again turned on its head, leaving her lost and hurt. The difference is that this time, though, she has someone in her corner. The homestead is losing its comfort, losing its status as a safe place. Instead, her home is becoming a house. In its void, she's seeking refuge with Nicole, a harbor to ride out the storm, and Nicole has opened her arms, offered sanctuary.

The arms around her constrict momentarily, before one of them loosens its grip, sliding over to travel slowly up and down Waverly's spine, giving comfort. When the hand travels up to her hair, stroking softly, Waverly smothers a smile in the folds of Nicole's sweater and goes back to listening to the steady beat of the heart beside her ear.

Over the past few days, Nicole has given Waverly strength when she flagged. Yesterday was particularly bad, and Nicole had held her then, much like this, while Waverly cried, venting about Willa and choking on tears in equal measure. She listens, she comforts, she makes Waverly laugh and draws her attention elsewhere when she starts to tailspin. She makes it so _easy_. All Waverly has to do is lean in, claim sanctuary.

None if it will solve Waverly's problems, no matter how much she may wish is were so. But what it does is make Waverly feel like she matters.

Nicole _sees_ her. And that...means everything.

Maybe she really is Sisyphus, doomed to roll this boulder up the hill day in and day out. But now - now she's got another set of hands helping her push.

When her breathing calms and the room steadies itself around her, she slowly pulls away from Nicole and paces haltingly around the enclosed space before coming to rest against the foot of the bed. In her periphery she can see Nicole leaning into the wall to her right, her brow furrowed, giving her space but watching attentively.

It feels like a breaking point is coming. Waverly's not the same girl she used to be. As a child there had been no recourse. No options. But she's no longer a child. While she still feels every cruel jab just as keenly now as an adult, she's learned from the harsh world around her the use of being guarded, of not letting her walls down too far or too early.

Willa's here - she's home. As long as she's got energy, she's got to keep trying to make things work. It's her duty as an Earp - as a sister - to push the boulder up the hill. But what happens if she runs out of strength?

Her eyes are unfocused but dry; they look ahead but see nothing. The sigh from her lips carries the weariness of ancients.

"I'm exhausted."


	2. Nicole, Party at the Hotel

With each step, her heels ring out a staccato note, deep and resonant on the bare wood of the hotel's staircase, the gauzy fabric of her dress swishing in syncopated accompaniment, but the low din of the crowded room quickly swallows their song, leaving nearby guests with only the faint impression of a melody but no real recollection of having heard a thing. Unaware of the symphony she's conducting, Nicole moves slowly up the stairs, focusing instead on keeping a firm grip with both of her hands. In her left, she holds her velvet clutch and a fistful of fabric, attempting to hitch her dress up just high enough to eliminate the risk of catching the hem with her heels and face-planting gracefully into the wood, but not so high that she inadvertently causes a scene in front of a room full of partygoers.

Again.

Which brings her back to her right hand, her fingers wrapped tightly around Champ Hardy's lower bicep, the cheap fabric of his suit jacket stiff and uncomfortable under her fingertips.

 _This isn't the right way to do this_.

The words repeat. The wrongness chafes, scratches at her brain.

His hands should be secured behind his back, the silver chain of the handcuffs a perfect handle, giving an officer an easy means to maintain control. Any indication that he's going to get squirrely, and a swift lift of the arm will throw off his equilibrium and get him back in line quickly and efficiently before he can get out of hand. It's as by the book as it comes. Literally - it was in the first chapter of their training book at the academy. Police departments in countries the world over rely on this technique day in and day out. Except this is Purgatory. The only thing they use the book for in Purgatory is as a doorstop. Or occasionally as a paperweight, but only when the fan is on at the station. After initially subduing Champ, Nicole had moved to re-cuff him properly, preparing to release the clasp and pull his arms behind his back, but Nedley had stepped in and placed his hand out, a silent entreaty to wait, to listen.

Still holding the handcuffs like her life depended on it, when she had looked up, the sheriff was busy surveying the room, discreetly gauging the amount of attention their little scene on the stairs was drawing from the crowded parlor below and the small party along the banister above. By the time he looked back to Nicole, it was clear a decision had been made. Quietly, for her ears only, he whispered, "That won't be necessary. We'll leave these in front for now." She didn't respond, not right away. The flare of her nostrils, the clench of her jaw all the answer she could muster. But he waited, and after several seconds, she nodded her head minutely. Continuing, this time at a regular volume for the people still obviously listening, physically leaning toward the stairs, straining to overhear anything juicy they could pass along to a friend or acquaintance, or hell, a stranger in the name of good gossip, the sheriff remarked, "Mr. Hardy won't be out of our company the rest of the night. Come on, let's see about finding him a place to sober up upstairs."

 _Fantastic. Got all dressed up to spend the night babysitting Champ goddamn Hardy._

When Waverly had texted her earlier in the day, asking her if she'd be here tonight, flirtatiously inquiring about what she'd be wearing, well, admittedly this is not how Nicole originally envisioned the evening going.

She gets it, what Nedley's doing. And as much as she wants to disagree, as much as she feels out of step with his rhythm at times, there's a logic to it that is inarguable. The dynamics at play in small town policing are night and day compared to the ones she trained under in the big city, and in her first few months here the culture shock was...disorienting. Rather than black and white, everything exists in gray scale, an official response always weighed against the potential effect on the department's public relations and the town's social politics. Everybody is somebody's something, and they are really quick to point it out when their father/mother/sister/brother/second cousin gets themselves arrested.

And it's not like this is just any small town. It's Purgatory. Nedley has been around long enough to know how to navigate the town's quirks and traps, to know how to read a room.

Being a cop in Purgatory is knowing that when the Garrett kids let a full grown pig loose in the school, they don't get charged with criminal mischief or criminal trespassing. Instead, their mom gets a phone call, their dad comes to pick them up in complete silence, and Nedley, of all people, lassoes the pig (his name was Mutt) for transport back to its owners, who live next door to the Garretts. It's knowing to expect the boys to spend the following weeks helping clean graffiti and pick up litter, looking sullen and miserable the entire time. Being a cop in Purgatory is also knowing that when Calgary loses a hockey game, Mrs. Dawson is inevitably going to be falling-down drunk at Shorty's, so whoever is on duty needs to swing by and give her a courtesy ride home.

Under Nedley's instruction, Nicole is still learning the steps, still modifying the ones she learned in the city, finding that they were too fast, too out of place here where the tempo is slower and the rhythm uneven. Sometimes she steps on Nedley's feet. Hell, sometimes she trips on her own. But she's learning. Intellectually, she gets it. But right now? In this instance? She wants Champ cuffed up like an actual perp, his hands behind his back, fully controlled. As high or drunk as he is, she can't be sure what he'll do next. He could break free, attack another party-goer - or go after Waverly again.

And it'll be a cold day in hell before she lets that happen.

The sigh that passes her lips is quiet, a muted aria of barely contained frustration and anger, but the only one close enough to hear it is Champ, and it's not like he has any idea what's going on even when he's sober. Reminding herself that she's on-duty - just in a slightly nicer uniform - she straightens her spine. Her heels ring out, her steps authoritative. Tightening her grip on his arm, she steers him up the stairs behind Nedley, keeping him moving upward, brooking no argument.

As they round the last landing and start up the final flight of stairs, Champ stumbles backward a little, forcing Nicole to twist her wrist awkwardly where it grips his arm and step back herself in order to stop him from falling down the flight below. The whole thing looks like some sort of awkward middle-school dance, and the movement sets off a new round of throbbing in her right hand, the pain radiating down from her knuckles into her fingers, a sharp reminder. The smile that graces her lips at the sensation is a strange mixture of proud and predatory.

 _I might be stuck with him, but at least I got to knock him on his ass first._

The distinction helps. When Champ is (relatively) steady on his feet again, they continue up the stairs, the noise from the crowded room above growing louder with each step.

Ten minutes, give or take. That's how long this sanctimonious asshole followed her from room to room harassing her, denigrating her, making sure she knew just how disgusting he thought she was. Oh, it wasn't anything she hadn't heard before, both back in the city and here - this wasn't the first time Champ had made his feelings known, although, usually, he's too chickenshit to do anything other than mutter under his breath when they happen to cross paths in town. But this time is different, and knowing this was more about Waverly and less about her made it a million times worse.

Frankly, if it wasn't for the fact that she was technically on duty tonight (or that Waverly might not appreciate it), she would have punched him in the mouth the first time he uttered a slur and left him spitting out his own teeth there in the lobby of the hotel for the whole town to see.

Instead, she bobbed and weaved from room to room, trying to shake the rodeo clown off her tail, but for someone who had downed no less than three glasses of bubbly in the time he'd been spewing his vitriol at her (one stolen from her own hand), Champ was remarkably focused on keeping up with her. Figures.

By the time he got around to talking about "his girlfriend," "his girl," "HIS HIS HIS," she'd reached her limit. Throw whatever he wants at her, she can take it - but leave Waverly out of this ordeal. Heading for the stairs, thinking she might be able to lose him in the more densely populated ballroom upstairs, her stomach had dropped to the floor when she heard Waverly speak from above them. That last thing she wanted was for Waverly to see this...thing Champ was doing, to hear the tone of his insults, to be subjected to the ugliness of the reality that unfortunately sometimes comes along with dating outside of the lines of what society thinks one should.

No, once Waverly got involved, things moved quickly after that.

There was a moment when Champ lurched towards Waverly that time slowed, crept, was measured in the movement of atoms on a microscopic scale. While Nicole's heart had stopped in her chest, the adrenaline spiked in her system, her vision sharpening dangerously, the muscles in her limbs bunching of their own accord. Her first instinct was to grab him by the suit jacket and throw him down the fucking stairs, to hell with the department's use of force policy. Her second reaction was to wonder if she needed to pull her back-up piece, the one strapped to the outside of her right thigh.

But then Nedley was there, his movement swifter than one might expect from the aging sheriff. To be honest, Nicole suspects he's capable of a lot more than the citizens of Purgatory might reckon, and he uses the bumbling small-town sheriff caricature to his advantage. When he placed himself between Champ and Waverly, an effective shield, Nicole waited, breath held while time resumed its normal speed around her, the immediacy of the threat abating. All the same, her muscles remained coiled, ready, a well-oiled machine on the verge of action.

Faced with Nedley, Champ turned, started back down the stairs, and that was all the opportunity Nicole needed. Pulling her arm back, when the tension grew to the appropriate levels, she released, the spring action resulting in an incredibly effective clothesline. A suspect tried to flee the scene after making threats to an upstanding citizen of Purgatory in full view of the town and multiple members of law enforcement. Or at least that's the gist of what will end up in her report at the end of the night. Incidentally, her report will gloss over the oh so satisfying crunch of bone on bone when her fist made contact with Champ's face, the way the impact sent concussive waves up from her wrist to her elbow and right back down, leaving her limb buzzing, awake, vibrating like a metronome at top speed. Dislodging the cuffs from her clutch had been a little unwieldy, but ultimately she got him secured, the cuffs clanking into place with metallic finality.

Only after Champ was secured, the threat contained, did time resume its normal tempo. In a rush, the noise of the room, all harsh whispers and scandalized gasps, assaulted her eardrums, bringing Nicole back to the moment, her tunnel vision retreating. Looking up from under her lashes, with her face still turned down towards Champ, her eyes sought out Waverly on the stairs above, needing to check in, to make sure everything was alright. But at the same time, she was afraid of what she'd find. What if Waverly was horrified by her actions? Embarrassed?

Standing above the room like a queen, Waverly's attention was only for Nicole. Her face was open, relieved. Awed, even, like the act of being defended was completely foreign to her. Nicole took in all of this in a millisecond, and she released the breath she wasn't even aware she'd been holding, relieved. Beneath the obvious, though, there was another look there as well, far more subtle - the darkening of the pupils, the heaviness of the eyelids, the unavoidable swallow. Nicole knew that look, and seeing it now, aimed at her in this moment in this crowded room left her feeling like a knight, kneeling before her queen, the conquered enemy laid out at her feet - a gift, proof of her devotion. Heat swelled in her veins, and when Waverly's eyes grew impossibly darker, the corner of Nicole's mouth twitched, the grin unstoppable.

As she enters the upstairs ballroom now, Champ Hardy in tow, the memory of Waverly above her fresh in her mind, she can't help herself - the grin blooms automatically. The pain sings in her knuckles, and she grins even wider.

Nedley leads them to the sidelines, picking out a spot nestled impossibly between the wall, a pillar, and the first of many tables dotting the room - the best spot for a cop. Taking her place next to the load-bearing support, Nicole quickly eyeballs the ballroom, methodically noting the exits, the layout, the points of interest in the space around her. Ask any cop in any jurisdiction, and they'll all say the same thing - anytime they go out in public, they don't feel comfortable unless they know all of the entrances/exits, they put themselves in a position to watch those points, and they find a good place to keep their backs to a wall. It's the trifecta.

For Nicole, though, there's one more thing, one more task to complete before she can feel at ease - finding Waverly. On her first scan of the room, she doesn't see her, and her heartbeat accelerates uncomfortably. Then at the next table over, Donna, who is sporting a beehive straight out of 1959, leans forward to talk to a gentleman across the way, and the sudden glimpse of green and collarbones draws Nicole's attention like a magnet. Sliding a few steps over so that the line of sight is clear, even when the beehive is back and upright again, Nicole's pulse evens out. A few tables down, she can see Waverly in profile, making conversation with someone nearby, her smile large and disarming. At the sight, a soft smile forms on Nicole's face, the one she reserves just for Waves.

When Waverly steps slightly off kilter at her table, Willa comes into focus on her other side, her eyes surveying the room warily. Before Willa had interrupted them downstairs, right after Waves had descended the stairs like a dream, she had told Nicole to stay by the exits. Her voice had been soft and concerned, but also authoritative - the kind of statement that leaves no room for argument. Not that Nicole had been inclined to argue. Truth be told she hadn't recovered from the initial dizziness that set in when Waverly was making her way towards her in the crowded room, her heart still beating a little too fast, her breath still coming a little too shallowly. In that moment Waverly could have asked anything of her, demanded the moon on a silver platter, and Nicole would have simply nodded and sought out Nedley for some lassoing tips before heading out into the cold winter's night.

But really what it comes down to is trust. As much as she wants to know more, to dig and interrogate, she grits her teeth and does as she's asked. If there's one thing she's learned with Waverly it's that patience will be rewarded, and she trusts that when the time is right, she won't be kept in the dark anymore.

That being said, of course, things would be much easier if Nicole knew what threats they were facing, what to look for, how to prepare - how to do her job. Instead, all she can do is watch. And wait.

Getting situated, she moves Champ to a position between her and the sheriff, keeping her left hand near his elbow and shoving her clutch under her arm, freeing up her right hand...just in case. So much for being near the exits. With Champ attached to her hip, exits are a no go, so this spot near the staircase will have to do. Besides, if Waverly's in danger, why would she expect her to just leave her to the fates up here alone? Sorry. Not happening.

Clearing her mind, Nicole takes a deep breath, willing herself to focus, and she surveys the room and its inhabitants more closely, looking for something...anything suspicious. Her eyes skip from person to person, face to face, reading lips, analyzing expressions. Some are uncomfortable, others flushed with booze, and any and all between. It's weird seeing Purgatory's citizenry out of their denim and boots and all dressed up to the nines. In some cases, it's downright unsettling.

She narrows her eyes. _Is that an ice sculpture...of a moose? Lord, this town..._

The air swirls with idle chatter, the clinking of glasses, polite laughter, and a few uproarious guffaws sprinkled here and there - the symphony of society, frivolous and self-important. Standing there in a beautiful gown, her handcuffs on the drunken idiot next to her, the knuckles on her right hand busted and bruised, she starts to feel like the only thing out of place in the room is her, standing guard.

As a waiter walks by, Nicole reaches up to grab a champagne flute. Not that she has any intention of drinking it, not with this rodeo clown glued to her side. But holding it makes her feel like she stands out just a little bit less, makes her feel like less of an on-duty cop and more of a partygoer. It's like high society camouflage.

In the distance on the far side of the ballroom, Deputy Marshall Dolls and Wynonna are deep in conversation, their heads close, words intense. Their expressions are drawn and anxious. Looking back to Waverly, her face is fretful, and she keeps flexing her jaw like a tic while her eyes roam the room, never still. Nicole can practically feel the nerves coming off of her from her post by the stairs. On Waverly's other side, Willa...well, there are moments where she looks worried, her eyes darting around the room as much as Waverly's, looking for something or someone. But then there are moments, usually when Waverly has turned in another direction, where Willa's face is harder to read. Nicole thinks she sees a flicker of smugness cross that cool exterior before it's artfully replaced by the wide-eyed neutrality that was there before.

Nicole has a lot of opinions on Willa, and exactly zero of them are repeatable in public. If patience is measured in the number of tears soaked into her sweater, the number of salty tracks she's kissed off of Waverly's cheeks, the number of times she's held her close, calmed her, told her everything would be alright, then Willa has been running on borrowed time pretty much since the time she miraculously showed back up in Purgatory. Watching Waverly walk on eggshells around her oldest sister, parrying the insults and jabs, picking herself up when Willa knocks her down and walking back into battle - it's killing her. It's torture watching someone you lo- care about get knocked down over and over and over again, knowing all you can do is help her back to her feet, dust her off, dry her tears, and then watch it happen all over again.

Compounding the issue, it's clear that the things Waverly is hiding about her sister far outnumber the things Waverly has confided in her. She knows she's been living in a commune or something, the one they found deep in the woods a few weeks ago, and her memories of the time before are spotty at best. But there are gaps in the story big enough to drive a truck through, and Waverly is becoming an expert at slipping around the edges, pirouetting away, changing topics before Nicole can even begin to take her own steps. In the end, it leaves Willa as just one more Purgatory mystery. A rude one.

Looking again between Dolls and Wynonna, Waverly and Willa, there's a twinge of unease settling between Nicole's shoulder blades. Considering that they seem to be the only people in this town not in the dark, their behavior tonight isn't exactly comforting. This Black Badge bullshit is killing her. Every story she gets is censored, redacted, sanitized so much that what's left barely makes any sense. Earlier, when Waverly slipped and said "If we get out of here...," she could see the struggle on her face plain as day, the exhaustion with the secrets and the cover stories, the desire to be open and honest. For better or for worse, it looks like that conversation won't be too far in the future now.

She feels the pull before it clicks what's happening. Coughing harshly, Champ starts to slump forward, and Nedley abandons the conversation he'd been rather animatedly involved in in a flash, asking questions, at once authoritative and concerned, so much like a father figure it's uncanny. Hastily setting her champagne down, she's able to get two hands on Champ's arm and use her full strength to keep him from knocking himself over. When the coughing subsides, and he's no longer in danger of ending up in a heap on the floor, she takes a moment to check his pupils, to press two fingers to his wrist and check his pulse. It's not in immediate danger territory, but it's not normal, either. On the other side, Nedley looks around the room again before shaking his head, indicating they're not going anywhere right now. Orders received, Nicole tightens her grip above Champ's elbow and repositions her feet, letting him rest a little of his weight against her.

After a few moments, when his breathing is back to normal and his whining has returned to the more tolerable grumbling it was before, Nicole feels like he's secure enough for her to go back to observing the room. Pulling upright and flicking her hair out of her face, her eyes land on Waverly first - always - only to find Waverly already looking right at her, a soft smile playing on her lips. Nicole's answering smile is immediate, its warmth suffusing her whole countenance, a steady hum stirring in her limbs. Waverly flicks her eyes over to Champ and back, pulling a face, her smile sliding into a grimace and her eyes rolling exaggeratedly in her skull. By no means an expert in charades, Nicole is still pretty confident that display translates into "Ugh." The laugh bubbles in Nicole's throat, and when she sees Nedley glance her way out of the corner of her eye, she tries to cover it with a cough, bringing her right hand up to cover her mouth, really trying to sell the feint. Mollified, he turns back around to his daughter, the two of them continuing to sip champagne and talk to the older ladies at the nearby table.

Nicole watches him surreptitiously, and when the coast is clear, she seeks out Waverly once more. Across the room, Waverly's eyebrows are drawn inward in concern, and holding up her own hand, she mouths "How's your hand?"

"I'm OK," Nicole answers in return, raising up the injured limb in question, flexing it, demonstrating its superb okayness to the satisfaction of the one-woman crowd, careful not to flinch when the movements pulled at her skin.

Waverly Earp, standing in a crowded room, stares right at Nicole, purses her lips into a kiss, and blows it over the palm of her hand directly at her.

The kiss in all of its simplicity hits Nicole with the force of a freight train. Blinking slowly, her mouth falls open with a soft "oh," and it feels like an eternity before she manages to get her brain to cooperate and get her muscles to react with the appropriate responding grin. Willa stirs at Waverly's elbow, and with a frown, all lightheartedness disappears in an instant on Waverly's face, as she turns fully toward her sister.

It's probably for the best - leaving Nicole to stare blankly at her back. One simple gesture, and she's come undone, her thoughts devolving into a stream of variations on the theme of "How is she real?" and "How is she with me?", broken only by a solitary "I love her," which short-circuits her brain all over again, sending her back into the spiral.

In the end, though, the thought she settles on, the one note that sounds beneath all of the others is just how proud she is of Waves. Not ten minutes ago she handled what had to have been her first experience with a homophobe like a seasoned pro. For christ sakes she was outed in front of half the town by her jackass ex-boyfriend, and yet here she is, completely unphased, blowing kisses to her girlfriend in a crowded room like they are the only two alive.

 _How is she real?_

A flash of red - Wynonna moves closer to the center of the room, Dolls on her heels. Wynonna, she doesn't know yet. Waverly hasn't told her. Dolls, well, Dolls has known for a long time now. Watching the two of them interact in the center of the room, the intensity of their looks, their body language. It occurs to Nicole that Waverly isn't the only one with a secret, and she finds herself smiling all over again. When the time comes, when Waverly is finally ready, she'll talk to Wynonna. Even though she's about as street smart as they come, Wynonna is remarkably focused on herself - if it doesn't directly affect her, then odds are it's going to take her awhile to notice. But when she does? No, Nicole doesn't think that'll be a problem. Willa, on the other hand. Across the room, Waverly is still conversing with the oldest Earp, speaking quickly, placing a hand on her arm while they talk.

Ugh. Willa. Honestly, after her interruption in the barn, the unintended coming out, she doubts that her dynamic with Waverly will change at all. It already sucks, and she can't imagine Willa making Waverly cry even more often. Still watching the two across the room, Nicole can't imagine the kind of infinite reserves of patience and kind-heartedness it takes for Waverly to keep making overtures to her sister, to keep picking herself up, ignoring the hurt, ignoring the pain, and keep reaching out. No matter how hard it gets hit, her heart keeps ticking, keeps pushing, and that's the most terrifyingly beautiful thing Nicole has ever seen. That's the thing - that's what she's so goddamn proud of. That resilient and beautiful heart.

Waverly turns suddenly, her earrings catching the light, the brilliant flashes blinding Nicole momentarily. That's how it is, isn't it? Some things are too bright to be viewed directly, for to look directly at them is to risk one's safety. But there are also things in this world that are unavoidable, and as surely as she's bound to take another breath, Nicole will always seek out Waverly.

Dipping her head, allowing her eyes to adjust, she looks up again from under her lashes, finding Waverly's eyes on her, her smile radiant. A vision.

Waverly winks flirtatiously before turning her attention elsewhere, but Nicole can still feel the warmth of the sun on her face, can still see the blinding stars in her eyes.

Beside her, Champ squirms. Reluctantly, Nicole leans forward, checks him out again, taking a quick look at his pupils, noting the bleeding from his nose has stopped, although it's left a bit of a mess behind.

Duty complete, she finds Waverly's profile once more and feels her blood simmer deliciously in her veins, a slight flush breaking through her skin. The ache in her hand subsides to a dull throb, robbed of attention, retreating to a monotonous bass, a barely-there background noise.

 _I can think of worse ways to spend an evening._


	3. Waverly, Sheriff's Station

"What I am is the goddamned Earp heir, and I'm running out of goddamned time!"

One shot. She's got one shot. And everything in Waverly's body, from her carefully chosen words to the intensity of her stare and even down to the flare of her nostrils, everything is being put to the same purpose - getting through to Wynonna, making her understand that Willa, _their_ Willa, never came back. She practically vibrates with the effort. But she's so singularly focused on her message that when Willa speaks, her voice shrill and startling in the quiet station, her brain is slow to process the meaning of the words. And then there's the movement. The rise of the arm, the gun brought level, the sights aimed at Wynonna, and her brain is still struggling to understand.

Clarity finally comes when the arm swings in her own direction. It's a curious thing, at once surprising and yet inevitable, like being on a train track with only one possible destination but no idea how long the journey. Of course, this is how it ends. How it was always going to end. And Waverly's one shot to get Wynonna to pay attention is suddenly...irrelevant.

In that moment, with the cavernous hollow of the gun barrel filling her vision with the dark finality of the grave, it occurs to her that she's never known fear like this. Oh, she's had plenty of scary moments. Memories flash through her mind of a noose tight around her neck, of smashing a skull in the bitter cold pre-dawn hours to taunt a witch. But being faced with the cold, unforgiving metal of her sister's gun takes the cake. It's personal. It's intimate. In an instant her body goes icy, the dread twisting and coiling in her stomach like a serpent.

"I don't want anyone to get hurt," Willa continues, the gun swinging back to Wynonna like a pendulum, a jarring juxtaposition to the message carried in her words. Her fingers tighten on the grip in emphasis.

Wynonna stares ahead, unblinking. "Nobody's getting hurt on my watch." It's a statement of fact, her voice calm and sure. There's no hesitation. No doubt. She says it with absolute conviction, and Waverly loves her for it. But while her voice is even, Waverly can see the fear around the edges, in the tightness of her eyes, the flare of her nostrils. Beneath her armor, even Wynonna has her tells, no matter how much she tries to bluff.

"Nobody else you mean," Willa spits in response, her words dripping with accusation. "Daddy. Me. Everyone else out there." With each word uttered, her voice escalates, her control slipping syllable by syllable. Lips curling, the vein on her neck becoming more prominent, she screams, "When are you going to take responsibility FOR ALL THAT YOU'VE DONE?!" The words echo in the empty station.

With that, Waverly thinks, the spell is finally broken, the facade cracked and crumbling, falling at their feet in jagged shards. This - this is what she really is. Who she really is. Angry, bitter, they're finally seeing just what's been waltzing around Purgatory in the guise of their long-lost sister.

When she was a kid, after...Willa, after Wynonna had been sent away, back when it was her and Gus and Curtis on the ranch, she remembers this one night. The day had been unseasonably warm, almost unbearable, but as the sun began to set, clouds had gathered on the horizon. Not the fluffy ones they used to recreate in school with cotton balls and Elmer's glue. These were dark and heavy, reaching from the horizon straight through to the heavens, the kind of clouds that blotted out the receding sunlight like a shroud. When the rain began, Gus ignored it. When the wind began to howl, she had gotten up to glance out the kitchen window, frowning. And when the lightning and thunder came, blinding, window-rattling, she had stepped to the front porch, worry writ large across her face. Waverly had followed, her curiosity outweighing her fear...to an extent. She stood on the porch next to Gus, her little arms wrapped around one of Gus's jean-clad legs, an anchor, just in case the gusts tried to carry her off. The wind whipped and shrieked like it was crying out in pain, and the lightning crackled in the sky, the snap of a whip. The air felt...different. Charged. Dangerous. She counted the lull between flashes and bangs, trying to figure out how far away the storm was, trying to determine if it was coming closer. And then in the distance, a bolt of lightning split the sky from west to east, its light blinding, and in that second of illumination, she caught the silhouette of the funnel cloud, spinning its way to the ground, the true threat unmasked and exposed. A sharp gasp, a firm hand on her shoulder, and Gus had sent her off to the coat closet to shelter, where she sat in the dark, counting the pauses in her head, her heart calming when she realized the storm was headed away, the tornado pointed in the other direction.

Standing in the police station, watching Willa's mask crack and come undone, her eyes wild, furious, nostrils flared, face contorted with years of anger, Waverly is a child again, standing on the porch in terror and awe as the tornado lurking in the dark is finally unveiled. Only this time they're right in the path.

Wynonna, though - Wynonna is unflinching. Turning, she faces Willa fully and straightens her spine, staring down the storm and ignoring the dangerous charge in the air. To Waverly she's Purgatory's answer to Pecos Bill, tough as nails, readying herself to lasso a tornado. Leaning forward like she has a lasso at the ready, Wynonna challenges, "Why did Bobo save you at the homestead? Why did you save him?"

To Waverly, it's comforting and terrifying all in one beat. The questions are specific and direct; they mean that Wynonna had noticed things were off with Willa, too, things she wondered about and picked at, couldn't quite get to fit into the puzzle. For a split second, Waverly feels like crying in relief. Finally...she wasn't alone. With their suspicions in the open, Wynonna pulls at the loose strands she's collected on her own and waits to see what unravels.

Across from them, Willa looks uncomfortable, her loss of control a misstep. The storm's rotation is becoming erratic, and the balance of power is shifting. The air is electric.

Waverly holds her breath.

Drums sound behind her, her phone's ringtone punctuating the silence from its place deep in the pocket of her coat. Willa cuts her eyes at the interruption; Wynonna is unphased, continuing to stare at their oldest sister, taking every opportunity she can to get a better read on the storm they're facing.

Absentmindedly, it occurs to her that she's going to have to change that ringtone when they get out of here. If they get out of here. It's been ringing off and on for the past hour or two while she was...detained, and she's worried that every time she hears the sound she'll get a phantom taste of duct tape.

The sound of boots on the tile floor registers first, followed quickly by a voice. _Her_ voice. The knots in her stomach coil impossibly tight.

 _No_.

"Hey, I knew I recognized that ringtone…" She looks up to see Nicole breezing into the squad room, slipping her own phone back into her coat pocket.

When she tries to call out, to warn her, to do something... _anything_...she finds she has no breath in her lungs and no give in her bones. Out of the corner of her eye she catches the movement of the gun, catching the overhead light in its arc and flashing like lightning in Willa's outstretched hand as she levels it at Nicole, who has stopped dead in her tracks. Waverly can only watch in mute horror as her deputy's face slides from excited to confused, and from confused to alarmed.

"Whoa! OK," Nicole spits out quickly, before pulling her eyes off of the gun and over to Waverly, a quick check-in and once over to make sure she's unharmed. Looking back to Willa, she continues placatingly, "OK."

 _No_.

Arms out, duty belt held loosely in an outstretched hand, too far out of reach to be useful - it's in this moment that Waverly realizes how wrong she had been just a minute before. So incredibly wrong. _This_ is the most terrified she's ever been.

The righteous anger that had flashed bright and hot across Willa's face just moments ago has since been replaced by cool detachment, and the quick change between the two diametrically opposed emotions makes the hair on the back of Waverly's neck stand on end. A moment ago she was erratic, unfocused - but no more. It's like watching the storm intensify all over again, the winds whipping and rotating, the tornado bearing down. With absolute control, Willa makes her demand. "Give me Peacemaker, or I punch a bunch of holes in Waverly's girlfriend."

"Girlfriend?" Wynonna asks, confused, briefly turning her head to Waverly for clarification before turning back to Willa, unwilling to take her eyes off of the danger in front of them for more than a second.

Tearing her eyes off of the gun barrel, Waverly's response is quick, off the cuff. "Umm, kind of?" As soon as the words are out, she hears how they sound and cringes inwardly.

"Kind of?!" Hurt, disbelieving, Waverly's response is enough to pull Nicole's attention off of the gun aimed in her direction. Honestly, of all the ways to come out to Wynonna being forced into it at gunpoint was nowhere on her list.

 _Ugh, Willa_.

 _Kind of_ is the last thing she really meant to say, her words failing her at the suddenness of the moment. Like they always do where Nicole is concerned. No, _kind of_ is definitely not what she meant to say, but with the words out there, she does the only thing she can do. Facing the door, holding Nicole's gaze, she keeps her mouth shut and apologizes silently, eyebrows knit in contrition, hoping she's able to communicate her actual feelings where her words so clearly failed. More than anything, in this moment, she wishes she could go to her, kiss her soundly, and tell her that she's so, so proud to be her girlfriend.

"I know you won't shoot," Wynonna continues, all business, but Waverly can't seem to tear her eyes off of Nicole.

 _This can't be real._

How did it come to this? How is this her life, where her girlfriend, the person who makes her feel safe, makes her feel seen, is being held at gunpoint by her own sister? When she looks at Nicole normally, it's like a calm descends on her - her nerves settle, her skin warms, and she feels safe. She feels like home. Looking at her now, it's like her body it battling herself, with part of her trying to settle into the usual calm warmth, the conditioned response, and the rest frozen in shock, dread pooling in her stomach like lead.

 _This can't happen_.

"What do I care about some ginger butch cop?" Snapping to attention, Waverly studies Willa's face, sees the mix of searing, festering pain and cold detachment.

With absolute certainty, she hisses, "Wynonna, she'll do it."

And she will. She knows she will. After seeing the way Willa changed in the cabin where she was held, Waverly's suspicions went into high gear, and she spent the party watching her like a hawk. There was a moment where Willa grabbed a glass of champagne off of a nearby waiter, urging everyone - her, Wynonna, Dolls - to drink up, to enjoy it, before walking away from the group. While the others began to talk amongst themselves, Waverly watched Willa's progress through the room, and she watched her discreetly set her glass of champagne down on a table, untouched, before walking away. It wasn't until Bobo's revelation later that she fully understood the meaning of that action. Even before the abduction and the cult, before the Stockholm syndrome, Willa always showed a startling lack of concern for Waverly and her wellbeing, like making her walk the beam in the barn. If she's so calloused about her own sisters, her family, would she hesitate to pull the trigger on Nicole? No more than killing a fly.

Across the room, Nicole speaks urgently, fear creeping into her voice, "Waverly..."

"If I don't have it in three..."

"No, please!" Her voice breaks as she pleads.

 _No, no, no…_

Ice begins to creep along her skin and down her spine, wrapping her legs in frost under her hand-beaded gown, rooting her in place. Where her skin is exposed, she's flush, her blood simmering beneath the surface. The combination reminds her of being sick with the flu, the impossible juxtaposition of hot and cold, shivering and sweating. She's dizzy with the sensation.

"It's the only thing that'll stop Bobo." Wynonna's voice quavers a little, although she's trying to cover it, to make it strong. Intimidating. She continues to stare straight at Willa, unblinking and unwilling to back down.

"Two."

Unable to keep the panic out of her voice, she pleads, "Wynonna!"

Sparing a glance at Nicole, standing by the door in her uniform, her hair still down from the ball and settled on her shoulders like a veil of fire, she's gentle and powerful at once, and Waverly finds herself again struck by how beautiful she is. Even here. Even now. _How is she real_? But the fear she can read all over her face is jarring. It scares her. She's never seen that fear there before. Ever. This is Nicole. Grab life by the balls Nicole. Waverly wasn't even aware that was an option for her. But she can see it there now, the deputy's eyes impossibly big, darting between Willa, the gun, Waverly, the gun, and Willa, on a vicious loop.

Wynonna's response is quick. Terse. "I can't!" She tears her eyes from Willa to look at her baby sister. It's the first time she's broken her staredown since the girlfriend revelation.

"Please…"

The words pop into Waverly's head without warning and the instant they cross her mind, she recognizes the truth in them with startling clarity. If lives weren't hanging in the balance, she'd laugh at the ridiculousness of the timing, but maybe what they say is true - that perhaps there's nothing like facing death to strip one's world down to brass tacks.

Looking between Willa and Nicole, she finally levels her gaze on Wynonna and speaks her truth.

"I love her."

"One." The sound of the gun being cocked echoes menacingly, an alarm ready to sound, but right now it may as well just be the two of them in the room. Waverly's lips tremble as Wynonna stares at her, reading her face, evaluating her options. Of all the people in this world, Waverly is just about the only one who knows the extent of the duty Wynonna's been tasked with, knows the weight of the decision she's being asked to make right here, right now. One life in exchange for the possibility of saving countless others. But choosing the others over Nicole, over Waverly - that will break her. It will break them.

 _Please. Please see me. Please._

"OK." Wynonna says it softly on an exhale, holding Waverly's gaze, her eyes full of unshed tears. "OK!" she shouts out in a rush, turning back to face their oldest sister, decision made. Willa narrows her eyes and holds out her hand in triumphant expectation.

Seeing the gesture, the hand outstretched, fingers splayed and waiting, Waverly feels the nerves in her stomach somersault as memories rush in, the deja vu so strong she has to steady herself against the counter. When she was little, some days Willa'd flat out steal her teddy bear, Mr. Plumpkins, to use as a hostage or a bargaining chip, something she knew would give her complete power over Waverly. Other days she liked to use him more as a punishment of sorts. Or a sacrifice. Once, after a particularly bad night at the homestead, the following morning Willa walked downstairs to find Waverly standing on her tiptoes on a stepstool in the kitchen, pouring the remaining contents of daddy's whiskey down the sink while the man himself slept off his hangover on the couch in the front room, his snores loud enough to rustle the curtains. Willa's eyes had lit up - it was the kind of blackmail material Willa cultivated and collected like precious gems, and in typical fashion, she used the threat of telling their father what happened to his whiskey to get Waverly to bend to her will. Her extortions didn't always have the same price, but she seemed to be fond of demanding a hush payment in the form of Mr. Plumpkins. Why? Because he was Waverly's favorite thing in the world. When the littlest Earp curled up at night in bed, lonely, crying, the teddy bear was the only thing that gave her any solace, the number of tears it caught incalculable. He was just about her only friend. Willa had stood in her room that morning of the whiskey incident, a barely restrained smile on her lips and a crying Waverly in front of her, and she had held out her hand just like she's doing now, demanding sacrifice. Taking her payment. It was always worse that way, having to hand him over herself.

Seeing the old gesture here, now, in this instant, it's like nothing has changed. Sure, the payment is different, Mr. Plumpkins replaced by the woman she's in love with; they're adults, and the stakes are terrifyingly high, but this is the same game they've been playing at since they were children. And it's too much.

As the gun lowers, Waverly closes her eyes, exhausted. Relieved. Sick.

Her breathing is ragged, uneven, not enough to fill her lungs but at least she's able to draw breath. The adrenaline still coursing through her veins leaves her jittery and unsteady, her blood pumping too hard to allow any calm to settle. With their devil's bargain complete, removing Nicole from the crosshairs (but placing all of Purgatory back in danger), she risks a glance at her deputy. No longer facing down a gun barrel, Nicole takes a single deep breath and swallows hard but otherwise remains just as tense as she was before, the fear still evident in her eyes, but there's anger there, too. Her focus is entirely on Willa - watching, waiting.

"So naive, so emotional." Disdain drips from Willa's mouth, from her eyes, but her knuckles are white where she grasps the leather bag, her grip on its precious contents unbreakable.

Shaking her head slightly, slowly from side to side, Wynonna declares, "This isn't over. I'm coming for you." Her voice is steel, cold and hard. Not a threat - no. A promise. And in that moment, there's not a person alive who wouldn't take her at her word. She wears the look of a woman who would move planets to get what she wants.

And Willa sees it.

"Then I better slow you down."

The words hang in the air for a second, suspended like a high wire act, and Waverly has just enough time to narrow her eyes in confusion, wondering at their meaning before the arm holding the pistol streaks upwards in a blur, the movement so unnaturally fast it's almost inhuman. Her eyes blank, Willa squeezes mechanically, her finger curling inward with no hesitation.

 _No_!

In the small confines of the station, surrounded by hard surfaces, the crack of the shot is deafening. Amidst the ringing, Waverly hears a scream and is horrified to realize it's her own. She turns her head to the door and watches in mute horror as Nicole is flung backward by the force of the shot before crumpling to the floor. Silent. Unmoving.

An excruciating pain pierces her own heart, searing and agonizing, while cold tendrils of dread wrap themselves around her limbs.

Willa's lips are moving but Waverly hears nothing else. She sees nothing else. Her eyes never leave the body by the door, and she screams at her legs to move until, finally, they comply. She moves without hesitation toward Nicole, her red hair splayed out around her like blood, her body impossibly still.

 _No. This can't be real._


	4. Nicole, Sheriff's Station Epilogue

It's dark.

Really dark.

When Nicole was a kid, in the days back before her family exchanged the wide open countryside for a cramped life in the city, there were nights when she was put on trash duty, tasked with dragging the household trash all the way down the long dirt drive out to the paved street where the county would send a truck by once a week to pick it up. While city nights never truly fade into black, hovering instead in this otherworldly deep purple, not day but not quite night, country nights are a different story altogether. They can be beautiful, the stars overhead a twinkling tapestry in the night sky, the steady hum of the cicadas a symphony in the trees, and the lack of civilization nearby creating a feeling of vastness so great it's like being the only person left on the planet. But when the sky was cloudy and the moon was new, the trips down the driveway turned ominous quick, fast, and in a hurry. Once outside the immediate vicinity of her house, the darkness was so complete she felt blind, stumbling towards some unknown destination, and with her sight robbed, her imagination ran wild with worst case scenarios. The rustle of a jackrabbit in the scrub brush, the snap of a twig behind her, the whoosh of an owl's wings somewhere in the sky above, all of these transformed into monsters, lurking on all sides, waiting for her to take one more step closer, waiting for their chance to grab her.

Chuckling mirthlessly, she thinks she might need to revise her worldview a bit on the existence of monsters now with that she's with Bla- but that's where the thought begins and ends, her mind suddenly growing confused, muddled, and she finds herself at a loss, unable to remember why it is that she should believe in monsters now. The darkness around her is suffocatingly thick; it's like floating in molasses. Her senses, her reactions all slow and dulled. Hazy. Thoughts are like haints, a ghostly shimmer in her periphery, but when she turns to face them head on, to chase them down, they've vanished, leaving her standing alone, wondering vaguely if she's going crazy.

A faint crack appears overhead, a pinpoint of light piercing the darkness like a blade, creating a small pool of yellow about twenty feet out in front of her, like the light of a solitary street lamp in the late hours of the night. She finds herself staring at it, the pull too strong to resist. A dull ache begins to throb in her head and in her chest, but the pain is muted and distant, easy to ignore.

A phantom touch sends shivers down her spine, unseen fingers stroking her hair, warm breath grazing her cheek, and without knowing why, Nicole sighs and leans into it. Overhead, another beam of light punctures the darkness, this one closer than the last.

When cool fingers brush her face, slide to the side of her neck, it brings a moment of clarity.

 _She's checking my pulse._

The thought vanishes like smoke before she can analyze it, though, leaving her with more questions than she had only a minute ago. Another hole, another ray of light. She stands just outside of the latest ring, and while most of her body is still shrouded in the syrupy darkness, her scuffed duty boots and uniform pants are softly illuminated in yellow, and she stares at them, feeling the tickle of memories struggling to form. With the focus, the ache in her head and in her chest grows. Wincing, she grits her teeth, ignores the pain, and wills herself to concentrate. To remember.

It starts off like a murmur, the sound of a susurrant stream in the distance, like the one that ran alongside the place she lived as a kid. She spent hours and hours outside in her grass-stained jeans, the whisper of the stream a constant companion, the soundtrack to her great adventures while she ran around playing make-believe as everything from an astronaut to a knight in shining armor and even a policewoman-

The stream becomes a flood, the whisper a shout.

 _I know that voice._

Cracks radiate out from the pinholes in the ceiling overhead, fragmenting the expanse like bolts of lightning, and chunk by chunk the darkness crumbles and falls, revealing nothing but brightness above. The smile comes to her face unbidden, and with Waverly's name on her tongue, she opens her eyes.

 _Jesus.._.

Nicole's eyes flutter shut again of their own volition when the sensations hit all at once. Her ears ring like she's been locked in a bell tower at high noon, the tolls endlessly ricocheting around her skull, adding another layer of exquisite pain to what can only be described as the worst hangover known to mankind. The pain in her chest, though, brings fresh memories of being told she's the wrong kind, being kicked repeatedly. It brings memories of being left for dead. With her eyes closed, she does a quick inventory.

 _Can I wiggle my fingers? Check. Toes? Check. Any new bullet-shaped holes? Negative_.

She feels pressure on her shoulder - hands tugging, checking - and with a sense of urgency, she draws a breath, before quickly regretting it. It's like breathing a lung full of needles, the pain sharp and piercing, and she gasps and sputters her way through it.

"Come here," Waverly murmurs, her voice trembling. Scared.

The hands pull at her shoulders again, insistent, frantic, and she can practically feel Waverly's nerves wrapping themselves around her, scrambling to find purchase. Steeling herself for the pain that movement will inevitably bring, her eyes flutter open, and she tenses her right arm underneath her to help roll onto her back. The action requires her to tighten most of the muscles in her abdomen and in her chest, and as she turns to face the room, the pain leaves her breathless. When she opens her mouth to say Waverly's name, nothing comes out, like some sort of nightmare. Instead, she gasps again, internally screaming in frustration at the lack of cooperation she's getting from her body.

Waverly's face swims into focus. And then back out. Shaking her head a little, and squeezing her eyes shut to see if her vision will clear, she tries again. When she opens them, the room around her is blurry and indistinct, like she's viewing everything through a layer of gauze, lending the scene a surreal dreamlike quality. Backlit by the station's overly bright fluorescent lighting and shrouded in a haze, Waverly is ethereal. Angelic. For a minute she wonders if maybe she really did die, if maybe Willa's aim was a bit sharper than she had thought, and this is what the after looks like. But her eyes clear a little, and she's able to see the terror writ large across Waverly's face, able to trace the tracks of her tears down her cheeks. Heaven wouldn't stand for that.

Intending to comfort her, to let her know she's OK, Nicole starts, "Wav-," but her lungs betray her again, leaving her gasping and wincing on the floor of the station and kicking off a fresh wave of throbbing in her skull.

"I know, I know," Waverly whispers, snaking a hand under the deputy's head, providing a makeshift cushion between her head and the unyielding tile of the station's floor. Nicole feels the soft press of Waverly's other hand to her chest - tender, hesitant. Struggling to get her vision to clear, she lets her eyes fall closed and leans into the touch.

The back of her head hurts like a bitch. There's a vague memory of flight - must have smacked it pretty hard against the wall when the force of the shot knocked her back.

 _Ugh...Willa._

Although the hand under her head is strong and supportive, the fingers flexing and curling with the weight, it's far more tender than she could have imagined. Where Waverly's thumb rubs steady circles on her scalp, far from hurting the bruised skin, the touch acts as a balm, cooling and soothing on contact. When a finger wraps unwittingly around one of her stray curls, pulling softly, her mind flashes with memories - stolen moments in Nedley's office, not ten feet away, of the same hands in her hair, grasping and pulling, albeit a lot less delicately. She wouldn't call it cooling, per se, but the heady memory does its own part to ground her, and when she opens her eyes, Waverly's face is clear. The edges blur, the effect other-worldly, but her features are crisp. Her earrings frame her face like unshed tears. The eyes looking back at Nicole are wide and anxious, wandering over her body in a frantic circuit, checking and evaluating. Searching.

When it hits her - the why - she wishes she had the energy to kick her own ass.

 _She doesn't know…she still thinks…_

Behind her, Wynonna says something, but she can't quite make it out, the words reaching her ears in unrecognizable shapes. But the ringing in her ears is beginning to fade, downgrading from the initial 'head in the bell tower' level to a more manageable one, kind of like having an annoying gnat continuously buzzing around her head, and when Wynonna approaches, kneeling beside her, her words are clear. "There's no blood." Her tone is dark. Hard. "If my sister joined the dark side and you've been a revenant this whole time I'm just gonna call in sick tomorrow."

 _Oh. OH. She thinks I'm a…?_

She can feel the laugh bubbling up in her throat, but one look at Wynonna's face cuts it off at the knees. Instead, she gasps, struggling to talk, needing to explain to her. To both of them. Talking hurts, though, and her voice is airy and feeble when it comes out, "No, I'm-"

But Wynonna moves with a speed that surprises her, the motion nothing but a blur, cutting off her words and leaving her head spinning. And then her shirt is ripped open, a handful of buttons ripped out of their stitches and sent flying around the station. Admittedly, there have been times when she's imagined an Earp ripping off her shirt, but the universe seems to have a sick sense of humor because this is definitely not the one she had in mind.

"-wearing a bulletproof vest."

She's not sure if it's a gasp or a laugh that issues from Waverly, but her features transform when the corners or her mouth lift into a smile, albeit a small one. It's still reserved. Disbelieving. When Waverly doesn't speak, when neither of the Earps speak, Nicole finds herself starting to ramble, feeling the need to fill the silence, to break the tension and regain some semblance of normalcy in this ridiculously abnormal situation.

"It's kind of standard operating procedure when we've got a 404 on our hands," she explains breathily, casually extracting the bullet from the kevlar where it had come to rest. When the bullet is free, its weight resting lightly in her fingertips, she finds she can't take her eyes off of it, and as she scrutinizes it, turning it and twisting it in her outstretched fingers, her sight becomes jarringly clear.

This isn't the first time she's faced death since coming to Purgatory. The last time death came for her in a big way - sharp and piercing, bloody and brutal, the kind of outsized death that might lurk in a nightmare. It left her in a heap in the snow, utterly alone, the darkness creeping in where she lay in the bright Purgatory countryside.

But she didn't stay there.

She looks at the bullet in her hand, its tip mushroomed from impact and its length compacted, the metal still warm. This tiny thing. This insignificant scrap of metal could have been the end of it tonight. Death disguised. She knows full well the damage it can do. What it could have done. God knows they watched enough video at the academy, heard enough horror stories.

But it didn't work.

Maybe this is the norm here in Purgatory. Like, "Hey, it's Tuesday, time to cheat death again!" At this rate, she'll be dodging bullets and sidestepping graves without even breaking stride before too long.

Flicking the bullet away, she thinks, " _What else you got?_ "

When she raises her eyes, she catches sight of Waverly, her head bowed, her eyes closed, looking for all the world like she's deep in prayer. And maybe she is. But her face is still drawn, her mouth tight. Shifting, she looks over at Wynonna, whose face is hazy, like Nicole's looking at her through a camera that's pulling in and out of focus, but she can read the confusion clear enough.

Thinking back to what she had just said, she clarifies, unable to suppress the snarky tone, "Bunch of crazy hicks off their rockers?" Her mouth tilts up in a grin. It's automatic.

Waverly laughs. There's a vein of deliriousness to it, but it's so goddamn beautiful to hear. With the laughter comes a smile. Heartfelt, judging by the way her eyes crinkle at the edges. It's the kind of smile that lights up a room, and with her head still spinning and her vision still blurry, it acts like a lighthouse, a beacon in the fog guiding her home.

Nicole can't stop staring.

Above her, Wynonna speaks softly, "Finally picked the smart one." Waverly's face is transformed. The terror that had filled her eyes a second ago gone, relief flashing like a neon sign, bright and clear. Electric. If her ears weren't still ringing, Nicole's pretty sure she'd hear the buzz coming off of her.

 _So that's out of the bag now...thank god._

They'd both been living under this cloud for weeks now, Wynonna still somehow oblivious to their relationship. In the beginning, sure, things were a bit more intentionally clandestine, mainly because this was so new for Waverly, and Nicole was content to be quiet, to be a secret while Waverly got her feet under her, so to speak. Even though all she really wanted was to walk down Main Street holding her girlfriend's hand, everyone else be damned. But hell, by this point, everyone but Wynonna knew. Dolls and Doc. Nedley. Even the damn rodeo clown figured it out, and that boy's only got one oar in the water. When Waverly had kissed her earlier at the hotel, plain as day and surrounded by half the town, she couldn't have been more proud of her.

But leave it to Willa to force her hand with Wynonna. It's not that Waverly was explicitly not telling her. Not really. But Wynonna, bless her heart, is about as observant as a doorknob when it comes to things that don't really affect her. As the past few weeks passed, she watched Waverly's fear grow, watched her worry and fret as the anxiety mushroomed in the echo chamber of her thoughts, until they'd grown far out of proportion.

Waverly's "kind of," spoken so off-hand, had surprised her almost as much as walking in and finding herself at gunpoint, but it really shouldn't have. Fear is a powerful thing. It whispers. Insinuates. Sows doubt where doubt shouldn't be able to grow. Of all the people in the world, for Waverly, Wynonna's opinion is the only one that matters. Hers is the one with the power to make her or break her.

But watching this exchange between the sisters now - the easy approval, the cheeky wink - there's no trace of hesitancy, no half-assed apology or self-conscious cover-up. When Waverly breaks their gaze and turns to look at Nicole again, her face somehow burns brighter than before.

Her sight clouds again, and she wants to scream in frustration, but while the cop side of her is starting to ring the alarm about what's possibly (OK, obviously) a concussion, the thought doesn't manage to capture her attention, instead floating back down into the dark from whence it came. But when it occurs to her that Waverly - her head backlit in fluorescence like a corona, light catching the silver of her earrings, catching the thousands of sequins on her gown, leaving them shining and twinkling like stars - is surely a celestial being, too beautiful, too blinding, she can think of nothing else. She sees nothing else.

It isn't until Waverly leans down, one hand settling on the rough kevlar of her vest, the other reaching out to lovingly stroke her hair, that the fog thins a little, that she can pull her thoughts out of the stratosphere and begin to focus. Her girlfriend's hands ground her. They're real. They're solid.

She's here. Alive.

"I'm gonna get you to the hospital, OK?" Waverly's voice is soft, but even with the drone still buzzing her ears, Nicole has no problem hearing the tension, the rawness, the tightly controlled tears. The hands are still tenderly stroking her hair, and where the fingertips touch her skin, they radiate warmth. And calm.

She remembers the hammock they had out back on their property in the country when she was a kid, how sometimes when she couldn't sleep, she'd stuff her sock-clad feet into her favorite cowboy boots, snag an extra blanket off her bed, and climb out the window, doing her best to keep quiet and avoid waking up the rest of the house. Her parents had set it up no more than fifteen feet from the back door, and to her, it was just on the outer ring of what felt safe in the vast darkness of the country night. When she'd climb into it, which always took a couple of tries, her boots more often than not swinging wildly off the sides, she always pulled her blanket tight around her like a shield, the warmth and the closeness giving her a child's illusion of safety and invincibility. Wrapped up tight, she'd watch for shooting stars and search for constellations, whispering the names her dad taught her under her breath when she found one she knew, until finally, mesmerized by the lazy twinkling overhead and lulled by the gentle rock of the hammock, her eyelids would droop, and she'd drag herself back inside to her waiting bed.

Looking up at Waverly now, a constellation so bright she can see nothing else, the feeling that overtakes her is the same one from childhood, and she finds that all she wants to do is pull Waverly close, to wrap up in one another and sink into this feeling.

But she can't. There's too much to do. There's a town to save, a sister to track down. Maybe it's the lingering sense of invincibility from being held by Waverly; hell, maybe she's learning to follow Nedley's example and selectively ignore protocol in certain situations. Whatever it is, gathering her breath, she responds the only way she can, "No, no - I'm just a little bruised. You've gotta go with Wynonna and stop your sister." Her breathing is noticeably labored, in spite of her effort to hide it.

Dragging her eyes away from Waverly, she looks to Wynonna before continuing. "Sorry, but she's kind of a dickhead." That's old news to Waverly and Nicole, of course, the number of tears Waverly's shed because of her oldest sister practically innumerable at this point. But to Wynonna? She's the one who needs to hear it.

"Wish Doc and Dolls were here."

 _Oh. Oh yeah. Black Badge._

When she had heard Waverly's ringtone earlier, her first reaction had been relief, honestly. After being officially welcomed to Black Badge an hour before, and trying unsuccessfully to reach Waverly on her cell, she had left the station on her mission, managing to track down Nedley, who was doing his best to maintain some sort of peace amongst the townspeople. Well, maybe peace is the wrong word. Contain the chaos is probably a little closer more accurate. Anyway, he hadn't seen any of the Earps since they made a run from the hotel, and when he saw the concern on her face, he sent her off. At first, she had hesitated. After all, he was looking pretty green around the gills, and there was no telling how much longer he'd remain vertical. Or sane. But standing there, sweat beading on his forehead, his eyes bloodshot, he gave her that look - it's a hybrid boss/dad look, and there's absolutely zero use arguing at that point. So, nodding, she left him to it. Pulling out her phone, she had tried again to reach Waverly. When it rang long enough to go to voicemail - again - she hung up and sent a text. With Nedley seen to, she needed to find the Earp sisters. All of them.

Before heading to the station, she decided to detour by her apartment. For one, she needed to change - saving the town is a hell of a lot easier without the dress and the heels. But secondly, part of her wondered (OK, hoped) Waverly had thought to use her apartment as a safe place to escape to, and the disappointment had set in immediately when she found it dark and empty, save for the cat. Again, she pulled out her cell and tried to call Waverly. Still no answer. With each text sent, each call to voicemail, Nicole's worry grew. Worry is a treacherous thing. Left unanswered, it grows teeth. It began to eat at her, to gnaw at her nerves. It was ravenous. Trying not to let her imagination run wild with worst case scenarios, she headed to the station, using the time to shortlist options for tracking down the Earps.

But ever since the moment she heard Waverly's ringtone and rounded the corner into the squad room, coming face to face with the barrel of Willa Earp's gun, she hadn't spared another thought for her new gig or anything else, really. Between the alternating iterations of " _don't shoot me_ " and " _don't shoot her_ ," there wasn't a lot of room for much else.

Pulling a deep breath, or as deep of one as she can muster, she responds to Wynonna. "They went to raid Shorty's. Something about an antidote."

"See?" Waverly says, her voice choked and raw. "Super smart."

Nicole thinks the tone coloring Waverly's words might be pride. She thinks it might be love. And then Waverly leans in to kiss her, and she stops thinking altogether.

A warm hand slides against her neck. Cradles her jaw. The touch is delicate, almost reverent.

She's vaguely aware of Wynonna getting up, muttering something, but to say that she cares enough to pay attention is a gross exaggeration. Honestly, it's a minor miracle that she's even capable of remembering anyone else is in the room outside of this cocoon they've created for themselves.

For all outward appearances, this kiss was normal. By the book. But for Nicole, this kiss is world-shifting, a kiss to tilt her off her axis. It's all encompassing, awakening every atom, reshaping every molecule, refining her entire being until everything is in perfect alignment, her entire self captured in an intimate gesture. It's a heady feeling, like having one's feet on the ground and head in the atmosphere, occupying two worlds at once. She reaches up and grabs Waverly's forearm, a reflex she can't seem to stop. Some people pinch themselves to make sure they're not dreaming, others close their eyes and count to ten. But Nicole, Black Badge Agent and Purgatory Sheriff Department Deputy, can't manage to get through a kiss without grabbing onto her girlfriend's arm for strength. It grounds her, keeps her from floating away.

With the touch comes clarity. The droning white noise that's been ever-present since she returned to consciousness vanishes, the silence in her mind total. Heavy. So when the thought manifests, she has nowhere to hide.

 _I love her._

It doesn't surprise her or scare her the way it had earlier in the evening when the novelty had been a shock to her system. Thinking it now, it's more like an affirmation, an acknowledgment of a law of nature.

 _I love her._

The kiss is different. It _feels_ different. Electric, almost. She can feel it humming where Waverly's hands touch her head, where they bury in her hair. It purrs where their lips meet. It trills and surges, intoxicating, when the thought repeats again.

 _I love her._

And then the kiss is broken, and Waverly pulls back. Nicole stares, her eyes wide. She wants to tell her, to say it, and opening her mouth she starts, "I-"...

A fur coat slams into her head, and the laugh that erupts from her throat is immediate and full. Because of course this is how it goes. Of course it is.

"Time's up, let's go!" Wynonna shouts as she runs by, her footsteps echoing on the tile floor, marking her progress out of the room.

She could stay here. Could hold her here. There's zero doubt in her mind that if she asked, if she made the request, Waverly would stay with her. But that's not how this is supposed to go. For the second time in as many minutes, she does the hard thing. "Go!" she urges, making her voice forceful and sure, before gathering her strength and surging upward, stealing one more searing kiss from the woman above her.

When Waverly pulls away this time, she does it swiftly and completely, standing abruptly and charging out of the room in a swirl of sequins and fur, as if any hesitance, any sign of weakness, no matter how minute, would anchor her here irrevocably. Nicole feels her breath stolen, pulled away on the current and trailing Waverly out of the room and down the hall as she makes her way out into the morning sun. Not that it matters. Nicole watches the departure with such rapt adoration that breathing isn't a primary consideration, and her lungs burn unnoticed. Her vision is remarkably clear at last.

 _She loves me?_

Is that what she heard? From the second she had walked in and that gun swiveled towards her, she felt like her senses had been compromised. Adrenaline poured into her veins, the fight or flight response urging her into action that she couldn't afford to take. Her heart had lodged firmly in her throat, and blood pounded furiously in her ears. Time moved slowly or at warp speed; her thoughts had been frantic or jarringly normal; sounds came and went, sometimes at a whisper and sometimes at a shout. There was no in-between.

 _I swear to god if I hit my head and created some fake memory or some bullshit like that I'm going to go after Willa myself._

It seems so improbable, being loved in return, that her brain is already hard at work trying to come up with excuses, grasping for reasons why this can't possibly be true. But when she thinks about it, when she strips out the self-doubt and really thinks about it, there's only one possible conclusion. There were moments tonight - on the staircase at the hotel and here, a few minutes ago over the barrel of the gun - flashes where their eyes met, where all pretext and distractions fell away, and it was just the two of them, even if only for an instant. They're moments that etch themselves in bone and brand themselves on skin, truths laid out in a shared gaze. Nothing can explain away those looks. No, even with the altered perception and the horrible circumstances, she silences her anxious brain and trusts her first impression.

"She loves me," Nicole whispers, as if in prayer.

She laughs. It's a bark of laughter, really - sudden and boisterous. It can't be helped. The thought makes her inescapably giddy, and her happiness rings loudly off the hard floor, echoing in the room like church bells.

But after a moment the laughter morphs into a pained wheeze. Her smile slides into a wince.

 _Oh. Right. That…_

With Waverly gone, it's time to do what she couldn't do with her girlfriend here: check her wounds. It's not any lingering sense of modesty or anything like that that kept her from evaluating her injury before now, but more of an awareness that if Waverly saw the real, physical impact of her sister's bullet then there was no way she would have walked out that door, and the last thing Nicole wants to be is an obstacle. But with the room to herself, she figures now's as good a time as any.

Her attempt to stand is met with dizziness and darkness, so back on the floor, she channels her inner kindergartener and simply scoots across the tiles until she reaches a desk. Her desk. Getting out of her now-buttonless shirt is as easy as a shrug (thanks, Wynonna), and it's the work of only a few moments to release the straps holding her vest in place, although the awkward twisting that accompanies its final removal pulls and strains uncomfortably in her chest.

A quick breath, a minuscule nod of reassurance, and she looks down to survey the damage.

The hem of her tank top is low cut, and the bruise sits just above the neckline, an angry palette of reds and purples, blues and yellows, sunset on her skin.

"Shit," she mutters under her breath.

OK. So she lied to Waverly when she said she was "just a little bruised." Well...lie isn't entirely accurate - it was more of an understatement, really. Turns out getting shot hurts a bit more than she may have let on. Who knew?

In the academy, they'd watched training videos where officers caught bullets in their vests - jarring, horrifying videos. It's not Hollywood. Someone can't take a handful of rounds in the chest and keep on walking like the Terminator. When a bullet makes contact with a bulletproof vest, the impact energy of the bullet disperses within the network of kevlar fibers, spreading the damage out laterally rather than straight forward. At best, the result is a mean bruise. At worst? Fractured ribs, internal bleeding. After all, it's still a bullet. Not just any bullet, either.

She had plenty of time to gauge the revolver Willa held in her outstretched hand, plenty of time to do the math. A gun like that? She'd have .357 magnum bullets unless she's an idiot, and although Willa may be many, many things, she's not stupid. Not by a long shot. And that's when she started to worry. That type of round really gained ground in the Prohibition era as an early armor piercing bullet, capable of piercing a gangster's steel car doors and stopping them in their tracks. Thank god technology has advanced since then. She expected the punch. She expected the pain. She did not, however, expect to be knocked smooth off her feet like she got caught in the vicious winds of a tornado. The only way she can think to describe the feeling is like being hit square in the chest by a baseball bat at full tilt.

 _Note to self: see if Nedley will let me trade out my duty weapon for one of those. Goddamn._

Looking down again, somehow the bruise looks like it's spread, the purple deepening, the sunset turning to twilight.

 _Waverly is going to kill me._

But she couldn't let her check it out earlier. If Waverly had seen this, come hell or high water they'd be going to the hospital, taking them both out of the game when the clock is counting down to the final seconds. It'd be like putting a band-aid over a trickling leak on a sinking ship...instead of helping to pump out the rising water. Now, though, Waverly is off, going after her sister. Going after Bobo del Ray. Doing what she's supposed to do, not stuck in a doctor's office while Nicole gets an x-ray.

Not that she doesn't understand the concern. Hell, she wishes more than anything that she could jump to her feet and go after her girlfriend, the urge to protect almost overwhelming in its intensity. But if there's one thing she's learned in the last few months is that Waverly should never be underestimated. Maybe she's a little biased, but the youngest Earp seems to be every bit as capable of taking care of herself as her sister is, maybe even more so, considering how cool she is under pressure. Not to mention her affinity for her trusty shotgun.

Breathing deeply, Nicole does her best to suppress the worry trembling in her stomach. It's Waverly. She's got this - she'll take care of herself. And Wynonna. And vice versa. Because that's what sisters do.

Except for Willa.

Spread out on the floor beside her is her vest, the small indention in its center mass looking implausibly insignificant. Her fingers trace the frayed edge where the bullet came to rest, feeling the responding ache above her breast like a phantom limb. The material around the damage gives. It flexes. Only it's not supposed to. Could the vest take some more rounds if need be? Sure, probably. But never again with the same assurance or confidence. It's compromised. She starts to pick it up anyway, figuring a dinged up vest is better than nothing, but then she stops short, reconsidering, an idea forming in her head. When she ran into Dolls and Doc earlier, when they deputized her (the thought still brings a smile to her face), she may have scoped out the supplies in his office.

OK...she definitely scoped out the supplies in his office.

Amongst his mountain of weaponry he had some extra body armor, and as the newly-inducted Agent Haught, she figures she's not out of line in thinking that she's got clearance to snag one of those for herself.

Gritting her teeth and taking as deep a breath as she can, Nicole puts her hands flat on the floor and gets her feet under herself, somehow managing to leverage herself up until she's fully vertical. Black spots dance in her periphery, but they don't encroach any further, so she stands still for a moment, leaning on the desk for support until the spots are gone and all that's left is the thrumming fluorescence of the station's overhead lighting.

Leaning over her desk, she snags a hair tie out of her desk drawer, and slinging her uniform shirt and her duty belt over her shoulder, she takes a few cautious steps, making sure her legs are good to go. For the first few feet, she's like a newborn foal, her limbs ungainly and shaky before her muscles begin to cooperate, and she walks through the squad room's doors into the hallway, every step bringing a return to normalcy. Slowly she walks toward the Black Badge office, her arms flexing, pulling her hair back as she goes, her fingers working quickly by rote. When the braid is complete, her hair tucked up and off her neck, she's all business, her thoughts shifting, turning analytical.

With the Earps located and off to take care of Bobo Del Ray and Willa, with Doc and Dolls handling the acquisition of the antidote, Nicole's next move is clear. Purgatory's sheriff is pretty much single-handedly trying to keep the rest of the town in check, and there's no telling how much longer he'll be able to stay vertical. He needs backup, and that is definitely something she can help with. She's got her assignment; she knows what needs to be done. They all do.

As she reaches for the Black Badge door, the brass knob cool in her hand, Nicole spares one more thought for Waverly before she gets to work, " _Good luck, baby. See you soon._ " The knob turns easily, and the door opens without resistance.

* * *

 **EPILOGUE**

Waverly scans the text on her screen before hitting 'send' on her response. They've been checking in regularly in the hour or two since they parted ways, but after leaving the cabin, after Bobo said - well, after all that, she had fallen silent, and Nicole's texts had grown increasingly anxious. On her way to meet Wynonna, though, she reached out, and the latest round of texts brought a measure of relief, news that the people of Purgatory are safe, doped to the gills on antipsychotics while the government works on mass-manufacturing an antidote from the one recovered by Doc and Dolls. Nicole passed along news that she had just left Nedley and Chrissy, both of whom will be fine, and she's fixing to head back out in the squad car to look for any more stragglers in need of help.

She takes a deep breath when Willa's gunshot still echoes in her mind, and looking at her phone once more, she scrolls through their conversation, needing the reminder that her girlfriend is safe, that she's really OK.

When her heart calms a little, she slips the phone back into her coat pocket and moves toward the rock wall denoting the boundary line, her boots crunching in the snow. But instead of relief, instead of calm, a new soundtrack takes up residence in her brain.

 _Not an Earp. Not an Earp. Not an Earp._

It echoes with each step like a skip on a record and leaves her feeling disoriented. Lost. It's almost ironic that they end up here in this spot, a place where their mom would sometimes bring them to play beneath the canopy of trees. They were good days, marked by a sisterhood that was missing from much of their time on the homestead with their dad. There was this one tree they used to climb as a team. Wynonna would go up first, always the first in the face of danger. It was a point of pride with her, and Waverly used to watch her scale the tree trunk with unabashed awe. When Wynonna was in place a few branches up, Willa would wrap her arms around Waverly's waist and hoist her up until she could latch onto the lowest branch, which although it seemed so far off the ground at the time, couldn't have been more than six feet off the ground. And then Wynonna would be there, helping her up, making sure she got her legs up on the branch before leading the way to the big V of the trunk, where all three of them would sit. Together.

The normally sunny memory brings no warmth or comfort. Willa's gone. Wynonna - she's tough, but she's the heir, and she'll survive.

But Waverly? She's not even an Earp.

She pulls up short a few feet shy of the gateway, eyeing the black puddle at her feet, a strange sight in the sea of snow covering the rest of landscape. Her mind still stuck in the past, the majority of her attention inward, the little voice that tells her to step back, to beware, goes unheard.

 _Not an Earp. Not an Earp._

Squatting down, she removes her glove and reaches forward.


End file.
